He dismissed her from his thoughts, for the glamour of the evening was not yet passed, and for an hour he sat in his big chair, staring into vacancy and recalling every incident of that previous evening. He could not believe it was true that this half-divine being was to be his; and then, with a deep sigh, he aroused himself to a sense of reality.
There was work to be done, he thought, as he rose to his feet, and it was work for her. His income was a small one, and must be considerably augmented before he dare ask this beautiful lady to share his lot.
He glanced idly at the table. That afternoon he had been writing up his notes of the case and the book was still where he had left it, only—
He could have sworn he had left it open. He had a remarkable memory for little things, tiny details of placements and position, and he was sure the book had not only been closed, but that its position had been changed.
A woman came in the mornings to clean the flat and make his bed and invariably he let her in himself. She usually arrived when he was making his own breakfast—another fad of his. She had no key, and under any circumstances never came at night.
He opened the book and almost jumped.
Between the pages, marking the place where he had been writing, was a key of a peculiar design. Attached to the handle was a tiny label on which was written: “D. G.’s master key.”
This time there was no sign of the Blue Hand, but he recognized the writing. It was the same which had appeared on the warning card which the girl had received.
The woman in black had been to his flat—and had left him the means to enter Digby Groat’s premises!
“Phew!” whistled Jim in amazement.
XVI
Eunice woke in the morning with a queer little sense of disappointment. It was not until she was thoroughly awake, sitting up in bed and sipping the fragrant tea which the maid had brought her, that she analysed the cause. Then she laughed at herself.
“Eunice Weldon,” she said, shaking her head sadly, “you’re a bold woman! Because the best man in the world was too good, too silly, or too frightened, to kiss you, you are working up a grievance. In the first place, Eunice Weldon, you shouldn’t have proposed to a man. It was unladylike and certain to lead to your feeling cheap. You should have been content to wait for the beautiful carpet under your feet and the mansion over your head, and should have despised the bare boards of an attic overlooking the railway. I don’t suppose they are bare boards, Eunice,” she mused. “They are certain to be very nicely covered and there will be all sorts of mementos of Jim’s campaigns hanging on the walls or tucked away in odd little cupboards. And I’m sure, when the trains are not rattling past, that the view from the window is beautiful, and, anyway, I shouldn’t have time to look out of the window. There would be Jim’s shirts to mend, Jim’s socks to darn, and—Eunice Weldon, get up!” she said hurriedly as she slipped out of bed.
Going along the corridor Digby Groat heard the sound of her fresh young voice singing in the bathroom, and he smiled.
The ripe beauty of the girl had come on him with a rush. She was no longer desirable, she was necessary. He had intended to make her his plaything, he was as determined now that she should be his decoration. He laughed aloud at the little conceit! A decoration! Something that would enhance him in the eyes of his fellows. Even marriage would be a small price to pay for the possession of that jewel.
Jackson saw him smiling as he came down the stairs.
“Another box of chocolates has arrived, sir,” he said in a low voice, as though he were imparting a shameful secret.
“Throw them in the ashpit, or give them to my mother,” said Digby carelessly, and Jackson stared at him.
“Aren’t you—” he began.
“Don’t ask so many questions, Jackson.” Digby turned his glittering eyes upon his servant and there was an ugly look in his face. “You are getting just a little too interested in things, my friend. And whilst we are on this matter, let me say, Jackson, that when you speak to Miss Weldon I want you to take that damned grin off your face and talk as a servant to a lady; do you understand that?”
“I’m no servant,” said the man sullenly.
“That is the part you are playing now, so play it,” said Digby, “and don’t sulk with me, or—”
His hand went up to a rack hanging on the wall, where reposed a collection of hunting-crops, and his fingers closed over the nearest.
The man started back.
“I didn’t mean anything,” he whined, his face livid. “I’ve tried to be respectful—”
“Get my letters,” said Digby curtly, “and bring them into the dining-room.”
Eunice came into the room at that moment.
“Good morning. Miss Weldon,” said Digby, pulling out her chair from the table. “Did you have a nice dinner?”
“Oh, splendid,” she said, and then changed the conversation.
She was dreading the possibility of his turning the conversation to the previous night, and was glad when the meal was finished.
Digby’s attitude, however, was most correct. He spoke of general topics, and did not touch upon her outing, and when she went to Mrs. Groat’s room to play at work, for it was only playing, the real work had been done, he did not, as she feared he might, follow her.
Digby waited until the doctor called, and waylaying him in the passage learnt that his mother had completely recovered, and though a recurrence of the stroke was possible,
